It “suits” him….

It was a difficult drive up 95 this morning, heading toward Hopkins.

I wasn’t going directly there today.  Today I would navigate through a part of Baltimore I’d never been before, looking for a men’s shelter.  A place that helps men of all ages, who have fractured lives, but are trying to put those pieces back together again.  This place offers help of all kinds.  My reason for going there was to help too…in a way.

In the back seat of the car, wrapped in plastic clothing covers, I had carefully placed Leroy’s suits.

He wasn’t a “suit guy” by any means, but he wore them when the occasion called for it.  Today’s occasion was to offer them to strangers who will hopefully use them to land a job that will get them back on their feet and back in the game of life.

If only these unknown men knew about these suits.  They met U.S. presidents, leaders of the world, the biggest corporate giants in business and they were eye witness to friends’ weddings and even some tearful goodbyes too.  These suits have already had a big life, just like the big man who filled out the sleeves and slacks with every inch of that 6 foot 5 inch frame.

It’s taken me more than 5 years to let go of these suits.  I’m not sure why I was so attached to them.  But as I drove away from the shelter today, through my tears, I knew I’d done the right thing.   The big guy, helping out other big guys: he’d done it himself so many times in his life.

The time of year, the men’s shelter; The suits were the perfect fit.

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Al December 17, 2013 at 9:12 am

As painful as it was to give away Leroy’s suits, believe that they may help someone transform their life via the spirit of Leroy. You did a noble thing. You’ll never know the next steps those suits will take but know in your heart that the spirit of Leroy is there trying to lift other souls in despair as he did for so many of us. Blessings to one and all and Merry Christmas.


Maureen (Mo) December 16, 2013 at 6:09 pm

I think I understand; I still have the last t-shirt worn by my father the day he died (his dress shirt had been cut open by the paramedics). Twenty years after Dad died, I washed the shirt. As Patrick lay dying, I wrote a poem (“Worn Shirt”) about keeping the shirt; until I did, no one knew I’d saved it. Now the poem links the two of them together in my mind.


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